


364

by PocketofPersons



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-14
Updated: 2013-03-14
Packaged: 2017-12-05 06:29:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/719934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PocketofPersons/pseuds/PocketofPersons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Just a little drabble I wrote because I was bored. This is not meant to be taken seriously. All mistakes are my own, and if there are any that absolutely cannot be ignored, please tell me!</p>
    </blockquote>





	364

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little drabble I wrote because I was bored. This is not meant to be taken seriously. All mistakes are my own, and if there are any that absolutely cannot be ignored, please tell me!

It takes a lot for Sherlock to live, eat, and breathe his work. An indefinite amount of brainpower keeps him focused on the task at hand, and it takes a lot to pull him out of it. That’s how it was, anyway. Then John Watson came along and Sherlock realized that perhaps paying bit of attention to him too would be fine. However he never took a day off of work; there was never any time for that.

And then he faked his death. Upon that ledge he stood, forcing the fake apologies and the false truth out into the open. He stepped off that ledge and entered a new world—a world riddled with intricate threads and perilous people. Often times he didn’t sleep for a week straight, nor would he eat. He spent days and nights scheming, discovering, and annihilating the legacy that Moriarty had left behind. One would think that his work would multiply to fulfill a 375 day year. That is not the case, however. Sherlock Holmes only worked 364 days a year, for three years.

On one day each year, he would just stop working. It was the same day every time, the day he fell. And technically it wasn’t even a full day that he didn’t work. 20 hours he took off, but it was better than nothing at all. He wouldn’t think about Moriarty or Moran, nor would he think about how many days he’d been gone. He would leave that all behind in America, or France, or China, or wherever it was he’d came from. There would be no room for work on this day, and he took it extremely seriously.

The day before he would get on a plane and go back to London, and he would see John. He would sit by and follow him around a bit. He would catalogue every new change he could spot, and there was always a new flood of information that he would store away in a special part of his palace, a room he simply named ‘John’. Whether it be the new gray patches or a new ring on his left hand, he would capture it and seal it away for the times where he had no idea why he was still gone.

His day would end at the same place, the graveyard. He would stand in the distance and watch John talk to the body-less grave. John would sometimes cry more than once, he could tell by the way his body would tense and the shudder of his shoulders. Sometimes John would sit down and just stare at the grave and trace the letters engraved over and over. And sometimes it would hurt Sherlock to watch. When John finally left, around 6 p.m, Sherlock would stalk over to the grave, and pick up the bouquet of flowers John always left behind. He would stroke the soft petals, and for once he would let sentimentality take him over. He would allow himself to empathize with John, and he would ask for forgiveness that wouldn’t be heard nor given. 

And then the 20 hours would end, and he would find himself on a plane to where he would take down the next thread. His subconscious would reset this unintentional timer back to 364, allowing him to forget about his world back home, and ultimately the friend he’d left behind.


End file.
